I have a fever on the floor of your room. So I write you a letter there on the improvised idea of a typewriter. On the other hand, ideas were rapidly turning back into the machines they came from. Fields of wheat will have to make room for fields of airplanes. Someone else must have gotten the letter because you weren’t downstairs anymore.

Outside the are birds made of vaudevillian origami. Like folded paper learning to chirp. I go to find you. There are interspersed scenes of us having to get home. We kept to side streets but resorted to escalators to get down from office buildings. We disguised ourselves as wheat inspectors. Everyone keeps words under their hats. When we’re home you change the desert climate of highways to a more suitable habitat for forest-dwellers.